


i like the thrill

by Jongley



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (kind of), (kinda), Canon-Typical Violence (briefly mentioned and off-screen only), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Sickfic, Vampires!, so that should give you an idea of what you're getting into here, the working title for this was "no plot only vibes", they actual mystery is almost entirely elided over tho tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24998473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jongley/pseuds/Jongley
Summary: "Jaskier?" Geralt asks."Yes?" Jaskier responds, perking up."Shut up."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	i like the thrill

**Author's Note:**

> title from [e e cummings](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1590/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/)
> 
> if you know even less about this fandom's canon than i do: geralt is a big tough dude who doesn't talk much. jaskier's the twunk who refuses to stop dogging at his heels. that's about all you need to know, imo.
> 
> (i thought i did just enough research to verify that there's no such thing as vampires in this universe? but my lovely and intelligent beta who actually knows things about canon pointed out that that is, uh, not true, so. yeah. [here's that section of the bestiary.](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Vampire))
> 
> speaking of, endless thanks to dangercupcake for the beta! they not only helped corral superfluous em dashes, but also provided invaluable insight re: canon! any remaining errors are my own, and probably a result of me not implementing their suggestions correctly, lol
> 
>  **spoilery warning:** there's no "monster" in the traditional sense, just a dude with a vamp fetish bc i'm lazy and this was supposed to be a quick little thing. tw for poisoning; brief discussions of a serial killer; as well as implied & off-screen: mob violence/justice, death/injury, sexual assault, rape, and murder

"Jaskier?" Geralt asks. 

"Yes?" Jaskier responds, perking up.

"Shut up."

Jaskier wilts. Geralt would feel bad, but the blessed silence finally reduces his headache from "severe throbbing" to "mild nuisance."

Speaking of nuisances, Jaskier lasts approximately forty-five seconds before he starts chattering again. It's a new personal record, Geralt's pretty sure; he'd clap, if it wouldn't feel like driving an ice pick directly into his skull.

"How are you still talking," Geralt moans, dropping his head into his hand, elbow propped on the table. Ow. Geralt slumps his shoulders very, very gently in defeat. He thinks he might actually puke, which he literally has not done since he was a boy at Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier stops picking idly at his lute. "You—you are looking rather pale, there, even for you," he says, leaning in, presumably to peer critically at Geralt; he's close enough that Geralt can feel Jaskier's breath ruffle his hair.

"I think I might be sick," Geralt groans, and Jaskier makes a surprised noise.

"Can witchers even _get_ sick?" he asks, astonished.

Geralt shrugs, very slightly. He doesn't actually know; he's never seen it happen, but that doesn't mean it's not possible.

Either Jaskier misses the motion, or doesn't care; he starts prattling on about some horrific illness he (allegedly) had as a child, no doubt embellishing it to hell and back, but his voice is—if not quieter, then—a tad softer, perhaps, and Geralt finds it almost… soothing. It provides a distraction for him to focus on, something other than the pounding in his head, at least.

  


* * *

  


"Are you sure you're not just… hungover?" Jaskier queries, some indeterminate amount of time later. He only got through two stories of childhood afflictions he cruelly suffered through, but that doesn't mean anything; he can drag a story out for hours, even days, if he wants to.

Once, he told Geralt a joke over the course of an entire week; the punchline was that it had no punchline. He'd timed it smartly, so that he delivered the last installment literally as Geralt was preparing to fight a basilisk; he revealed the final line just as Geralt was winding up to strike the killing blow, and then immediately ran away. Geralt had maybe gone a little overkill on the carcass, after that.

"Hn," Geralt grunts, and rests his forehead on the table.

  


* * *

  


Geralt thinks he might fall asleep like that, or at least slips into a doze. He doesn't notice when Jaskier leaves the table, but he's certainly made aware of his return, because Jaskier comes back carrying a cool, damp cloth, which he places over Geralt's brow after using gentle hands to turn his head to the side.

Geralt blinks tiredly up at Jaskier. He can't remember the last time someone cared for him like this when he was sick—it was his mother, probably, ages ago. It feels—surprisingly nice, actually, not that he'd ever admit it, to Jaskier or anyone else.

Jaskier starts to pull the cloth away, and Geralt—whines. "No, don't, that—it feels nice," he begs, and—he didn't even know his voice could _sound_ like that.

"Right," Jaskier says weakly. "Well, I'll mop your tender brow as much as you like, darling, but first we have to go upstairs to our room, all right? Come on, up we go." He hooks an arm under Geralt's and heaves with all his might; Geralt barely budges.

"Must I?" Geralt asks, trying to keep the whine out of his voice and only partially succeeding.

"Yes, you must, unfortunately, or I'm afraid Mary behind the bar will have our hides," Jaskier informs him, bracing his legs better and trying to lever Geralt upright again. He's moderately more successful, but only because Geralt is feeling too ill to actively resist him.

"Almost there," Jaskier grunts, "come on, now, Geralt, work with me here. I need you to stand up, please." And, well. If Jaskier really needs him too, Geralt can do it. For Jaskier's sake.

Geralt braces his hand on the table and stands up slowly, reaching out with his free hand to grasp Jaskier's shoulder and steady himself when he feels himself list to the side a bit—and then he realizes… he’s… a little dizzy.

He's only ever felt like this when he's been suffering from a concussion; he can't remember taking any blows to the head recently, which means… "This is… not good," he mutters, woozy, and shifts a little more of his weight onto Jaskier.

"Whoa now, easy does it," Jaskier cautions, bringing up his own hand to clasp Geralt's where it's resting on Jaskier's shoulder.

"I'm fine," Geralt protests, even though—as is often the case when he says so—he's anything but.

Jaskier snorts. "You are decidedly not fine, my dear friend, but no bother, we'll just get you upstairs and into bed—" Jaskier hooks an arm under Geralt's own, not taking his weight so much as helping to steady him, and leads him towards the stairs.

The railing helps, when they reach the stairs; he can use it to support some of his weight, and with it on one side and Jaskier on his other, Geralt feels positively stable.

It's still slow going, up the stairs, but they make it eventually—or, Geralt assumes they do, since one moment he's on the bottom step of the staircase, and the next, blinking his eyes open and looking up at the ceiling of the room they've rented for the week.

He's lying on his back; presumably on the one bed in the room—it was the only room available for twenty miles, since the local monster decided the annual county festival would be the best time to strike.

Geralt's been on edge since they arrived in town—before that, even—since they first started hearing reports of a beast leaving multiple victims with puncture wounds at the festival. There were too many bodies for a bruxa; it was too neat to be a fleder, and much too sloppy for a higher vampire.

This was the second day they'd spent at said festival; much to Jaskier's disappointment, they were still there for business, not pleasure. Jaskier was like a little kid as they walked through the booths and stalls, ostensibly searching for any nefarious individuals; every now and then he'd disappear from Geralt's side, only to reappear thirty seconds later with some fried confection or other, holding it out to Geralt to offer a taste.

(He'd quickly discovered that Jaskier would pout for _hours_ if refused, and search out more foods to offer Geralt, like a cat bringing him dead rats; it was much more expedient for Geralt to deign to taste each proffered treat, in the interest of continuing their hunt. It had nothing to do with savoring the sweetness, something he hadn't allowed himself to enjoy for years, nor with the way Jaskier's eyes would alight, his chest puffed up with pride and satisfaction at pleasing his witcher. None whatsoever.)

  


* * *

  


* * *

  


The monster, as it turns out, is not really a monster at all—at least not in the traditional sense, Jaskier explains to Geralt when he gets back to their room at the end of the day. Geralt is sitting up in bed, at least, which is a good sign, though he still looks rather peaked.

"So after I spoke to the baker," and here Jaskier throws the bag of sugared buns, sadly no longer warm, onto Geralt's chest, "I obviously went and found myself a lady of the night, which—no judgement, Geralt, I know you have your—preferences, but I really thin—"

"Oh, gods, will you _get on with it already_ , Jaskier," Geralt groans, spewing sugar crystals everywhere. Jaskier's always admired Geralt's masterful vocal inflection; his ability to make Jaskier's name sound like a curse is, frankly, second to none.

"Yes, yes, all right." Jaskier rolls his eyes—he's long past being offended by Geralt's rough ways, luckily for the both of them. "Right, where was I—ah, yes! So I spoke to the Madam, who informed me—for a pretty little bit of coin, I might add—you're welcome, by the way—and she told me about a rather unsavory sort who used to come around and rent her girls' time and return them in much the same condition—albeit alive—as our victims were found in."

"So someone in town has a disturbing obsession with bruxae, what _of_ it?" Geralt grumbles, somehow even _less_ patient—though rather more loquacious—than usual.

"Did you know, you're rather more loquacious when you're—" Jaskier has to duck a flying sugar bun, half-eaten, at that, and decides getting himself back on track, narrative-wise, is probably the better part of valor, given the circumstances.

" _So_ , if you were paying attention, you'd—"

"I'm always paying attention," Geralt grumbles, petulant, and Jaskier would feel—equally petulant, if not more so, but—that was actually rather sweet of Geralt to say, so Jaskier just carries on speaking and doesn't give in to the urge to stomp his foot like a sulking child.

"Well, then you will have noticed that I said they _had_ had a customer with such inclinations, which, of course, implies that they _stopped_. And that is because they did stop, and _that_ is because the Madam banned the gentleman of ill-repute from her establishment, and _that_ was—"

"Right before the attacks on locals started," Geralt finishes, and this time Jaskier does give into the urge to stamp his foot—very gently, but no less petulantly.

"Yes, exactly, gold star to you, my friend," Jaskier says, and if he doesn't actually sound all that cross, well—it's nice to know that Geralt does listen to what he's saying sometimes, is all.

"So how do we find him," Geralt prompts, and—

"Well, now that you ask, actually," Jaskier lets himself tease Geralt, "that's not our problem anymore."

Geralt looks disbelieving; Jaskier smirks.

"See, then I also stopped and spoke to an herbalist, on my way to try and track down another of the ladies who had been paid to spend time with this—man, if he can even be called that—and I had already spoken to two or three others, so I had a pretty good description of the chap, but more detail can never hurt, right?" 

Geralt waves a hand, _Go on_ , so Jaskier does.

"Right. So I visited the herbalist, just to ask if he had any idea about what could be afflicting you, but it turns out that," Jaskier holds up one finger, as he starts listing the pieces of information he discovered: "One, he knows exactly what's wrong with you, and two, how to cure it, and three, that his child was one of the ones killed by the 'monster,' and four, he recognized the description of the individual in question—apparently he's provided the herbalist with, well, some herbs, before—and five, he and some other relatives of the victims already had a group that got together, to search for clues and the sort, and—"

Jaskier ran out of fingers on one hand, and had to hold up the other, "—six, _they_ would be all too eager to go confront this chap and deal with matters accordingly, and seventh and lastly and perhaps best of all, he would happily trade me the cure for the rather arcane poison you've been languishing under—which he recognized the signs of precisely _because_ this individual had provided it to him in the past; apparently it hasn't been used for some millennia, was thought lost to time, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_ —and he would give me the antidote for free, or should I say in exchange for the information with which I had provided him—and which was exceedingly convenient, as I had spent most of my coin acquiring those sugared buns you've got there—by the way, are you going to finish those?—and also the various ladies' time and information."

Geralt looks—not suitably impressed, when Jaskier finishes recounting his tale, so—"Ta-da!" Jaskier adds, doing jazz hands to signify that Geralt could begin clapping any minute now—though Jaskier's still only got seven fingers up, so the jazz hands look a little wonky. That's probably why they don't seem to have the desired effect.

"Are you telling me," Geralt starts, decidedly not amused, despite the rather rousing performance Jaskier just provided him with. (Not to mention the sugared buns! The man could stand to show a little appreciation, is all Jaskier's saying.)

"Are you telling me that you have _had the antidote this entire time_ , and instead of _giving it to me_ , you've been _blathering on_ , while I lie here in near- _agony_ —you gave me _sugared buns_ when you entered, but not the _cure_ —"

"Oh, right, silly me!" Jaskier realizes, fishing the little vial out of his pocket. "Right, probably should've given this to you first, you're right about that, well—oh well, anyway, here you go—" He has to wrestle with the cork for a moment; he stumbles briefly when he finally tugs it free, almost spilling it all down himself—but he _doesn't_ , there's no need for Geralt to lurch towards him, like he's going to struggle out of bed. "Whoopsie, no stay there, I've got it—here we go then," he mutters, crossing the room quickly and holding it to Geralt's lips.

Jaskier cups the back of Geralt's head with his other hand while he tilts the vial slowly upward, supporting Geralt's neck as he drinks. Geralt finishes quickly, after only two swallows, and licks his lips to catch any stray drops. Jaskier drops his hands to his sides and coughs, taking a hasty step back.

"Well, that should, um—right, yes, the herbalist said it won't cure everything instantly, but it should make you start to feel better slowly, over the course of the next few hours. Granted, all the literature on this is apparently quite out of date, even corroded in places, so he wasn't entirely sure he'd translated everything correctly—there's really no telling how quickly it might affect you, but—"

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts, from over on the bed—when did Jaskier get so far away? "Quit your nervous pacing and come sit down," Geralt instructs, and Jaskier—does.

"I'm just—" he starts. 

"—a mother hen, I know," Geralt finishes for him, and Jaskier swats at his arm—lightly, of course.

"I was _going_ to say—worried," Jaskier admits, too honest, looking straight into Geralt's eyes. They really are a gorgeous color.

"Has anyone ever told you, your eyes are a most remarkable—" Jaskier begins to say, before Geralt interrupts him, _again_.

"Thank you, Jaskier," he mumbles near incoherently, but he meets Jaskier's eyes while he says it, and—Jaskier's not proud of it, okay, but he might swoon, just a little bit, at the combined effect of Geralt's _eyes_ and Geralt actually _thanking him_.

"Are you—?" Geralt asks, his big, sturdy hands reaching out to steady Jaskier as he sways.

"I'm all right," Jaskier gasps, "Just—the adrenaline leaving my system, or something, I think. I really was rather—quite worried, about you. In case I didn't say that already."

"Hn," Geralt grunts softly. "You did."

"Well, it—it bears repeating, then, Geralt," Jaskier says, patting at one of Geralt's massive biceps, where it's supporting a not inconsiderable quantity of Jaskier's upper body weight.

"Feeling better then, it seems," Jaskier comments inanely.

"Hn," Geralt says.

His jaw works, like he's chewing on his words before he spits them out, disgusted.

"Why do you even—care. About me," Geralt asks, foregoing any question intonation as he drops his hands from Jaskier's shoulders. Jaskier feels cold without them.

"Oh, well, I…" Jaskier's not sure how to respond to that. "I suppose I just simply—do. Care about you, that is. We're friends, after all, aren't we? Loathe though I know you are to admit it." He smiles wanly, twiddles his thumbs.

"Hn," Geralt says, and pauses before he continues. Jaskier waits him out, patiently for once—though that's admittedly more to do with awkwardness barring his tongue than anything else.

"And you're—you're all right. With this—with our—arrangement," Geralt checks.

"I—well, that is, I—" Jaskier blusters, at a loss for words. Should he—no, there'd be no use in telling Geralt about _that_ , after all; the man probably doesn't _have_ any romantic feelings or emotions left in him, after his training—and if he did, he'd never admit them to _Jaskier_ , of all beings.

Jaskier isn't sure how to say anything, without letting slip all of that, so he closes his mouth with a snap and shrugs mutely, not meeting Geralt's eyes.

"You're—not." Geralt looks— _stunned_ is the only word for it. "I knew it," he grunts, pushing the covers off his lap, unbalancing Jaskier as he does so; this time, Geralt doesn't reach out to help steady him when Jaskier wobbles.

"Everyone always wants _something_ , and it's never me…" Geralt mutters to himself, nearly inaudible; if Jaskier hadn't pitched forward when Geralt unintentionally shoved at him, he'd've missed it entirely.

"Wait, wait, Geralt—wait a moment," Jaskier says, finally snapping into action, hands reaching up to tug Geralt back down and sit next to him again. Geralt must be willing to be moved; otherwise Jaskier'd never be able to do so.

"Wait, give me moment to—to think, Geralt," Jaskier pleads. Geralt doesn't meet his eyes, but he doesn't get up again, either, which Jaskier is willing to take as a win.

"Thank you." Jaskier exhales. "Okay, so. What I _meant_ to say, is that of _course_ I'm happy to be your friend. Proud, even, one could say." He gives a self-deprecating little shrug. "I know better than to expect any—any more from you—any _thing_ , really, but I just—well, it doesn't really matter what I want, does it? If you're not willing to give it."

Geralt doesn't say anything; Jaskier smiles, wry, and doesn't try to meet his eyes.

They sit there in silence for a few moments, each of them presumably processing the situation. It's rather—it's surprisingly comfortable, actually; Jaskier always assumed that, if he ever confessed to—or even hinted at—his feelings, Geralt would bolt, at best. (The "at worst" wasn't, quite frankly, even worth thinking about.)

Eventually, Geralt speaks, his voice rough and halting. "I—are you—do you mean that you want—more? From—me?" He looks genuinely confused, more so than Jaskier's ever seen him, even counting the time he "accidentally" found Jaskier's hidden sketches of Geralt himself. Jaskier holds out hope that perhaps he hasn't quite parsed Jaskier's meaning, yet.

"I—well, yes, I suppose I am," Jaskier admits, then hurries to add, "not to say that I'm—upset, or even—discontent, with our current arrangement, just that—"

"There's—something else, then, that you want—from me? _With_ me?" Geralt is worryingly close to hitting the nail on the proverbial head, there, and Jaskier... frets.

It's just—it's just that—Jaskier's feeling all torn open, here, all raw edges and not enough padding to blunt them. It's—he sings about other people rather than himself for a reason; he doesn't—he likes the spotlight, sure, and the attention, yes—but only so long as it's not directed at the deepest, most intimate parts of psyche. Geralt may only be one person, but—he's a lot of attention to bear, when it's all directed straight at Jaskier like this.

Jaskier tries to be patient and gentle and understanding with Geralt—the gods knew the man hadn't had nearly enough of that, in his life, but—but clearly that hasn't been getting his point across, and, well—and Jaskier thinks he's granted a little leeway, here, with his emotions, so he lets his voice get a tad stroppy as he responds to Geralt's line of inquiry.

"Do you—you do realize that there are _other_ witchers I could follow around, right?" Jaskier asks, just making sure. "I've even met some of them with you! Like that time we didn't see each other for a few years—I bounced around a bit, but spent a fair bit of time with this chap named Aleksandr, quite a lovely individual, he was _much_ more lenient about letting me close to battles, so that I could properly sing his praises afterward—"

Geralt makes a noise like a mountain preparing for a landslide; Jaskier suddenly remembers why he hadn't shared that tidbit with Geralt before, and hastily redirects himself.

"—right, nevermind that; anyway, point is, even though I've got other options, I choose to follow you! Even when half the time you're explicitly telling me not to—yes, just because I don't obey doesn't mean I don't _listen_ , you great buffoon—and the rest of the time you're ignoring me, I still _choose_ to tag along with _you_. Haven't you ever wondered why that is?"

It's a rhetorical question, obviously; Jaskier's on a roll, now, and he doesn't intend to stop. "Uh-uh, nope," he tuts, when Geralt opens his mouth like he's going to speak. "No, you asked, and also I think I rather need to get this all out of my system, quite frankly, or it's going to—to build, and—and _fester_ , and get all nasty and resentful, so can you please just—listen?"

"Hn," Geralt grunts, and then nods.

"Thank you," Jaskier smiles.

"Right-o, so, I know you've got your whole—abandonment—complex— _thing_ —" Jaskier waves both hands broadly, trying to encompass the whole _I have mommy issues I refuse to acknowledge or speak about_ vibe Geralt's got going on, "—but I do actually enjoy your presence, Geralt. No, really, I was surprised, too, but—other than that time on the mountain, because I did _not_ like that, I really—I genuinely enjoy the time we spend together. I value it, even, one could say! And before you say it— _no_ , not because of the song material you give me—I mean, you won't even let me practice it without complaining!"

Jaskier takes a moment to recapture his breath; he gestures toward Geralt, to signify that it's his turn to speak, if he'd like to take it; wisely—or perhaps not, Jaskier isn't really sure—Geralt chooses not to, so Jaskier gathers his breath back into himself to finish up, but first—

"Shove over," he says, pushing futilely at the nearer of Geralt's massive, tree-trunk thighs, trying to make room for himself to squeeze his bum onto the edge of the bed so he can finally sit down. (Jaskier has been sleeping on what could generously be called something approximating a straw pallet, since Geralt first started showing symptoms of sickness; he's looking forward to a real bed, tonight, even if the vast majority of it will be taken up by his witcher's hulking form.)

He gets his back up against the headboard, next to Geralt; Jaskier doesn't cuddle quite as close as he'd like to, but there's a comforting line of heat pressed all down along his side, now, which helps give Jaskier the courage to angle his torso slightly towards Geralt and begin speaking again.

"It's just that I happen to be—well, that is, it would seem that I've—that I have, perhaps, fallen a little bit in love. With, um—you." Jaskier clears his throat, and risks a peek up at Geralt's face through his eyelashes. He looks completely stunned.

"You—I—" Geralt flounders. "I think this potion you gave me was a dud." Jaskier inhales sharply, about to insist that it is no such thing, but Geralt continues before he can. "My fever must be getting worse; it seems I'm having auditory hallucinations," he says, and Jaskier groans, dropping his head forward until his chin meets his chest.

" _Seriously?_ " Jaskier huffs, before he raises his head to meet Geralt's confused gaze. "I really can't stand you sometimes, did you know that?" Jaskier asks, rolling his eyes fondly, and then— _fuck it_ , he thinks, there's an easier way to get his point across—and so Jaskier leans forward and simply plants one on Geralt.

Geralt does, like, a full-body startle underneath him, and Jaskier snickers softly against his mouth. It seems to jolt Geralt into action; luckily for Jaskier's continued health and safety (and lack of death by mortification), Geralt actually—kisses him back, a bit.

It's rather chaste, as far as kisses go, but Jaskier supposes that's appropriate, probably, for a first kiss with someone you've already professed your love for. (He would be a little miffed that Geralt hadn't said it back yet, but, well—it's Geralt. Jaskier could meet him at the altar, and would still be surprised to hear him say it.)

It's just a sweet press of lips, Geralt's moving gently under his—but then suddenly Geralt's mouth is opening under Jaskier's, and Geralt is gasping into the kiss, his big hands coming up to grasp at Jaskier's hips—and the next thing Jaskier knows, he's firmly planted in Geralt's lap, having swung a leg over to straddle him. Geralt's hairdo is beyond saving; Jaskier's is probably even worse, and they're both breathless and kiss-flushed, their lips swollen and spit-shiny.

It is absolutely _glorious_.

Jaskier goes to dive back in, but Geralt stops him with a hand to his chest, gentle but unyielding, and then has to clear his throat twice before he can get any words out audibly.

"You know I—you—too, right?" Geralt says awkwardly, and coughs again. He keeps peeking his eyes up at Jaskier for the shortest little glances, before looking back down and to the side, refusing to hold Jaskier's gaze.

Jaskier grins. "Yes, my darling," he says, and laughs in delight at the disgusted wet-cat face Geralt makes at the pet name. "I know," Jaskier tells him, and leans back in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> jaskier's joke that's mentioned near the beginning is based off the cheerio joke, of which there are many variations, and all of which can be drawn out for ages. (my version is obviously the best one, though a quick google will provide many others.) i think i first heard it at summer camp; idk, but what i do know is that telling it has nearly gotten me into trouble multiple times. (but it's also my bff's favorite joke ever, and technically helped me get into college, so, you know. ymmv.) (i would, like, offer to tell it in the comments or something? but i have no reason to threaten y'all like that.)


End file.
